


But your fangs were already in

by LittleLinor



Series: Ren's To Blame [1]
Category: Cardfight!! Vanguard
Genre: Asexual Character, Bondage, Consensual Kink, D/s, M/M, nonsexual kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-21
Updated: 2016-06-21
Packaged: 2018-07-16 11:21:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7266073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleLinor/pseuds/LittleLinor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>You want, so fiercely, to be gentle with him.</i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Chrono/Ibuki nonsexual D/s kink, set a couple of years after canon.<br/>(See notes for warnings, setting, etc)</p>
            </blockquote>





	But your fangs were already in

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is set in [a dumb "what if" verse](http://usedempyrealthunder.tumblr.com/post/146267030257/backstory-post-for-that-one-chronoibuki) that mostly relies on Ren being too persuasive for anyone's good. Tl;dr, Chrono and Ibuki end up accidentally dating thanks to Ren's meddling and Chrono's nurturing tendencies, and try to negotiate a healthy relationship around their individual traumas and issues ~~and Ibuki's terrible communication skills~~.  
>  The fic focuses on the first time they actually try anything of their own initiative.
> 
> This is pretty damn fluffy, but it does touch on Chrono's abandonment and Ibuki's bullying and self-destructive tendencies. As for warnings, there's D/s (but no humiliation whatsoever), very light bondage and painplay (including hairpulling), and obviously the age difference. For the record, yes Chrono is domming.  
> It's also nonsexual, the most skin you'll see is Ibuki's chest.

For the first time since you met Ibuki this afternoon, you finally wonder if you've bitten off more than you can chew.  
Not Ibuki himself. As infuriating as he can sometimes be, you're starting to know him pretty well, and it turns out that far from the haughty image he projects, he actually reacts well to being called out, as long as you give him time to digest it. No, if he had been impermeable, unmovable, you wouldn't have wasted your time trying to _talk_ to him in the first place, much less become close to him. If you hadn't already known that he was willing (slowly, apprehensively) to let you in, you would have blown off Ren with a few choice words, winning smile and pretty hair or no.  
It's not that Ibuki is too much for you. It's just that this, here, now, feels so overwhelmingly big and important, and you're not Ren with all his gear and experience and self-assurance. You're just you, with your hands and your words, and your fierce desire to look under his skin and see him at peace.  
It's already started, at least. When you met him a couple of hours ago, he'd been strung with stress, and upset enough that it showed through his mask, enough for someone who knows him well enough to notice. But ever since you took his hand and led him to a schedule of your own choosing, he's gradually mellowed, eased down, his attitude and shoulders subdued. As if following you had allowed him to slip out of whatever was crushing him.  
And that had been your goal, yes. But the numbness that came with it upsets you. You know it all too well.  
And so it's led you here, in his home, sitting on the edge of his bed (and _hopefully_ he won't get the wrong idea, it's just much easier to deal with the height difference when you're both sitting down, and you want him to be comfortable, but, hey, you're the one in charge, you'll just have to make it clear if he asks), looking at his face while he looks at the ground and wondering how the hell you're going to do this.  
_See it this way. He wouldn't have let you in if he didn't want it._  
The red of his eyes is soft. You'd never really had time to look at them before, you'd always had _something_ else to focus on, but now that you do, it strikes you how dark and soft they are. Your own eyes, when you stare in the mirror, often feel too bright, too harsh. But the red eyes that every story has told you were piercing and dangerous hold instead the quiet, muted warmth of a dying sunset.  
On instinct, you push yourself up to your knees, lean forward, and cup the side of his head to kiss his cheek, fingertips barely parting the roots of his hair.  
He gasps and looks up at you as you pull back, and _now_ they're intense, but instead of scared the expression in them just makes you feel warm. Protective.  
You made the right choice.  
“… take off your coat,” you finally tell him.  
For a moment, you think he's going to refuse, that all this tension is just going to fizzle and die. But after a few seconds, he nods, and shrugs the coat off his shoulders before reaching to pull it off completely and fold it lightly.  
You smile and hold out your arms, and he gives it to you. Nerves sparkling excitedly, you stretch to the side to set it down on the nearest furniture—his desk chair.  
He's actually looking at you when you move back to face him, and it makes you both nervous and stupidly happy.  
You move closer and reach for the metal protection handing covering his chest.  
“… how do you even take that thing off...”  
“Let me show you,” he says, finally talking for the first time since you got here. That too eases your worries a little.  
He reaches for what you assume is a clasp under it, right where the front piece joins the part covering his shoulders, and your eyes are drawn to a dent in his armour—a scratch, rather, you see as you move closer. It's almost perfectly aligned with the upper rim, enough that from a distance you could have thought it was part of the design, but now that you look at it from this close, you can see a slight roughness to its edges, the outgoing jags polished by time but the cuts inside still sharp.  
“… was that always there?” you ask, tracing it with a finger. Now that you actively think about it, you think that line has been there for a while, but you can't remember how far.  
He slows down, his shoulders suddenly tense.  
“… no.” You look up at him, but he's avoiding your gaze. “It's been there for a few months.”  
“It wasn't—you didn't get that when they attacked the branch, did you?” you ask, trying to bite back the remaining feelings of anger and worry you always get at the thought.  
“No.” He pauses, looks up at you, then winces slightly and looks away again. But when he continues, his voice is a little more steady. “When you wanted to give up Vanguard, I fought you.”  
“Yeah I remember.” You feel your eyes narrow. “You were trying to train me in that stupid roundabout way of yours _again_ , weren't you?”  
He chuckles, slight colour rising to his cheeks.  
“I'm sorry… should I apologise for that too?”  
“Well you just did, didn't you?” You sigh, although you can't help but chuckle at the same time. Almost fondly, even. Damn him for being endearing. “Let's leave it at that.”  
He nods, and takes another breath before continuing.  
“… during the fight, you unconsciously tapped into your powers as peacemaker.”  
“Huh!?”  
“It wasn't the first time. But this time, you materialised it without the help of GIRS. The shockwave caused by the unit's attack cut the armour.”  
You stare.  
“… _what!?_ ”  
“Something similar happened the first time we fought.”  
The GIRS malfunction. Back then, you'd only just discovered the system, and with your two weeks of experience there was no way you could have made the link. But now…  
_Picture it._  
“… you told me to picture it.”  
“Yes.”  
“You were _hoping_ something would happen.”  
He hesitates.  
“I was… wondering. Whether it would.” His eyes flit away. “No, maybe I did hope.”  
“… are you _out of your mind?_ ”  
You grab his collar and pull him close, scared fury overtaking the careful control you'd been trying to build. He gasps, eyes wide, and _now_ you remember, that same expression on his face, that same day, and several times since, whenever you came at him and overcame him with rage.  
“You could— _I could have killed you_!” you all but yell at him. “It cut through _metal_ , what if it had been...” You trail off, shaking, and press your other hand to his chest, just above the cut. The other edge of your palm resting on the base of his neck.  
Just a hand's width away.  
“… Ibuki, just a little higher and that was your throat.” You're still shaking, voice quiet, but above even your anger comes the belated fear, the realisation that you could have lost him before you even came close to him. “Do you think _that_ 's what I wanted to play vanguard for?”  
He looks away.  
“I'm sorry...”  
You pull him to you with the fist you still have in his collar, and hug him when he falls against your chest.  
“Stop taking so many stupid godamn risks, you idiot.”  
He stays frozen for several seconds, but you don't, you _refuse_ to let go, one arm wrapped around his shoulders and the other fisted in his hair, and after a while he deflates with a shudder, goes limp in your arms and presses his face to your shoulder. You rest your cheek against his hair, heart still beating madly.  
What happened to him, you can't help but wonder, that he keeps treating himself with so little care.  
“Don't do something like this again. And that's an order.”  
He smiles against your shoulder, enough that you feel it and shiver.  
“I already promised you. Baiting you in that way was manipulative to begin with. I said I'd put an end to that behaviour and I intend to keep that promise.”  
“Yeah, well, that too,” you huff, because _seriously_ , Ibuki. “But that's not what I'm talking about. I trust you on that part already.”  
He doesn't answer. You frown and pull back, holding his shoulder to make him look at you.  
“Don't put yourself in harm's way like that. When we're fighting a real battle is one thing,” you add, anticipating his objection, “but something like this was _completely unnecessary_ and you need to stop. Are we clear?”  
You frown for effect, but from the way he's looking at you, you think you might not even have needed that.  
“… yes.”  
“Good.” You nudge his forehead with yours before pulling back, and _oh_ , being physical feels so much less awkward now that he's let you hug him. Like a barrier you were both holding on to has been broken.  
You look at his armour again.  
“… and you never fixed it? Replaced it?”  
“No.”  
“… why?”  
He looks down, at your chest rather than your face. Swallows, subtly but visible enough when you're staring at him like this. Touches the cut with his fingertips.  
“… I didn't want to.”  
It's disarmingly honest. You stare at him as his fingers trace the cut, curl slightly like an aborted fist, stopped in their tracks.  
It feels like being allowed to gaze into his bared, opened heart.  
It only takes a few seconds for you to make up your mind.  
You reach forward, catching his face again and kissing him, on the lips this time. He breathes in sharply and lets you, lips barely opened against yours, and as you tilt his face to kiss him more comfortably, his fingers move from his chest to yours, resting against your shirt.  
You want, so fiercely, to be gentle with him.  
“Here,” you murmur when you break away. “Let me take it off myself.”  
He nods.

Your fingers struggle with the unfamiliar metal clasp, but soon enough you hear a little click and it opens, loosening the entire piece enough to safely pull it away and over his head. You put it down, carefully now that you're aware of the importance it holds for him, and bring your hand back to where it used to hang, gently pressed against his chest.  
His head is tilted slightly forward, his hair hiding part of his face, but what you can see looks quiet rather than upset, and his chest rises and falls slow and deep under your hand.  
Tentatively, you slide fingertips under the cover hiding his buttons.  
“I won't take off more than that,” you clarify, just to make sure.  
He nods.  
You take a deep breath and reach up, to undo the button at his neck.  
It comes easily enough, thankfully. You'd been so fixated on being independent, as a child, that you trained yourself in everyday tasks to never require help. Careful knots that never made anyone reach down to re-adjust them. Buttons at your back. Cooking, once Mikuru was legally allowed to adopt you and pulled you out of the orphanage (she'd made sure to have ready-to-eat food available at all times, at first, but gradually stopped as you consistently cooked your own and left the easy meals for her when she came home). Undoing someone else's buttons is hardly a challenge, after all the times you helped younger kids make theirs.  
But Ibuki's breath picks up when your fingers graze his neck, and that almost makes you stumble, biting your lip to keep your fingers steady.  
You undo that button and move to the next one, staying slow but gaining confidence as you go, keeping your eyes firmly on your hands to avoid staring at his chest. Avoid focusing on his breathing. But you hear it anyway, exhales that make your heart lurch when you realise they mean his mouth is open.  
Halfway through, he straightens a bit, and shrugs his shoulders a little, sitting slightly closer to you, relaxed.  
You feel giddy.  
Your fingers reach the last button, and you push his shirt open.

If it hadn't been for last time, you would have been surprised by his body. The thinness of his chest and shoulders, less imposing without the coat and the armour widening them. But as thin as he is, there's still the definition of muscles rather than bones.  
He's strong, _physically_ strong, and it makes you wish you could see him in action.  
It also, if you're completely honest, makes having him lean into your touch even more exciting. But that thought makes you feel a bit guilty, so you push it aside. You don't have time for this kind of self-doubt right now.  
Instead, you bring a hand to his stomach and brush it up, feeling the shape of his muscles and the heat of his skin.  
His breath catches a little and you look up at him, smiling as your fingers keep moving. He's—he's _blushing_ , already, the colour subtle but visible, and it sends a shiver of excitement down your spine and a spike of protective warmth through your chest. You shift closer, almost straddling one of his legs as you get up to your knees, and bring your face close to his, hand still caressing his chest.  
“Ibuki,” you murmur, a playful, satisfied hum that comes right from your guts.  
His shoulders curl in just a little and he holds your gaze, breath still short.  
Your fingers reach the base of his neck. You wrap them loosely around, thumb against his throat, and kiss him again.  
And it feels—so _powerful_ , so breathtaking, that he's kissing you back, that he's _letting_ you touch him, move him, bare him. It makes your body feel heavy in a good way, rooted like a battle stance, your center of gravity low and your muscles light and tingling. Like even a hurricane couldn't so much as sway you.  
You grin, skin stretching against your teeth, and kiss him again, and hope it makes him happy too.  
His breath shakes when you break away. You rub the front of his throat with your thumb, letting your shoulders relax and fall.  
“Are you okay?”  
A deep breath.  
“Yes.”  
You smile, and press a little, and feel his throat move under your thumb.  
It's surprisingly comfortable. Quiet and warm, a silence that doesn't feel awkward. You rub again, keeping up the pressure, the rest of your fingers cupping the side of his neck. He swallows and his eyes close, his breath light and shaky.  
When you look down, his fingers have curled against the bed, and you feel your cheeks stretch in a smile again.  
“Hold on,” you murmur.  
You—reluctantly—let go of his neck, and reach for the collar of his shirt instead, pushing it aside and open, then back, and the shirt down his shoulders and arms. His shoulders rise and he helps you shrug it off, falling off his wrists and down to the bed. You reach around and behind him with your arms to take it and put it away.  
And just like that, you're at a loss again, because he's _here_ , for you, _waiting_ , and you don't know what to do. You have no experience, and you don't know him enough ( _yet_ , you think fiercely, yet, because you _are_ going to, and this is part of learning), and you're scared of getting it wrong, of hurting him, of disappointing him, of betraying that trust he's so readily given you, when you were the one to make the first move and turn this potential into a reality. But the rumbling in your gut, the blaze in your veins, those haven't ebbed, and you still—want. You want to turn him inside out and listen to him gasp and watch him gradually let go of everything he's holding on to, until there's only _him_ left, just Ibuki (and one day, soon, you'll use his first name instead, but not yet), in your arms and safe and, for fucking once, not carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.  
So you reach for the back of his head and kiss him again, hand buried into his hair. He's kissing back slowly and breathing against your lips, and when you pull yourself closer by your grip on his hair and twist your fist into it he _smiles_ , exhales into the kiss and smiles as his lips slow down, eyes fluttering close in what actually looks like pleasure.  
You twist again and he gasps, pliant, and you want nothing more than to restrain him again.  
“… you'll tell me if I'm hurting you, right?” you ask when you pull away, waiting for his eyes to open so he can see yours are serious. “I mean—you know. If I'm hurting you too much. If you don't like it.”  
He nods. You pull just a little bit more.  
“ _Promise me_.”  
“… I promise.”  
You stare at him to make sure he means it, then finally nod and release him.  
“… let me borrow your belt.”

He blinks, but nods, and even leans back a little to give you access to his waist. You grin at the attention, and reach for it, too excited to try and hide the blush heating up your cheeks.  
Thankfully, the belt is a sensible one, and comes open easily, and you slide it out of its hoops before sitting back and holding it in front of you, humming quietly.  
He stays silent, eyes on the belt. You look up at him and smile.  
“Give me your hands.”  
He looks up hurriedly, but you hold his gaze, putting all the strength of what you're feeling into it to make sure you _look_ confident, _feel_ confident, to be steadfast enough that he can rely on you. And finally, after a few moments of hesitation, he does, sitting straighter to free his hands from his weight and holding them in front of him, wrists together, fingers slightly curled.  
The sight almost knocks the air out of you.  
He really does want you to.  
You catch his wrists, head a little light, and hold them together to wrap the belt around them. Once, twice, through the buckle, not too tight. And once across, to hold it better, tucking the end underneath.  
You sit back.  
“… how is it?”  
He tests the hold, tugging slightly with his arms.  
“I could get out of it, but it would take some effort and time.”  
“Not too tight?”  
“No.”  
You nod, then reach for his hands again, lacing the fingers of one of your hands with his. He squeezes.  
You take a deep breath.  
_Confidence, Chrono. Just show him how you feel._  
You swallow and shift closer, legs on either side of him almost like a shield, and bring your other hand to his face.  
He looks up. You smile at him, softer, and take your time caressing his face. Brows, eyes, cheek, the rest of your fingers safely tucked against the side of his face as your thumb moves. You caress his lips and he sighs. His cheekbone, hidden under the adult softness of his face, and he leans into your hold.  
“Chrono...”  
It's whispered, quiet, but it's the first time you've heard him use your name since last time, when you'd caught him unaware and blind. And it makes your heart grind. Burst.  
“Yeah.” You squeeze at his hand, caress his cheekbone again. “Yeah, I'm here.”  
He breathes. Slowly in. A suspended pause. Slowly out, shaky. And then again, more relaxed, more open. You keep holding his face and just watch him, watch his reactions to your hold and your gaze. A nervous flicker of his eyes, rising heat on his cheek. And his breath, again and again, as he just lets you.  
You lean forward to kiss him, gentle and almost lazy, and his threaded fingers curl between yours.  
You take your time. There's no reason to go fast, and kissing is still new and exciting to you (you wonder if it is to him). A slight bite to his lower lip and he lets a shaky breath into your mouth. You keep your hold on his head and angle yourself better, catching it between your own lips this time, pulling. It's just a little awkward, but you like the feeling anyway, the slight bitten roughness of the outside contrasting with the softness on the other side, the way it squishes when you press, and pulls, and springs back when you release it. Little details about Ibuki that you'd never thought about, that you'd never thought you'd ever get to experience. So endearingly human, and a good reminder of—how physical he actually is. Not just a mind, like he acts so often, but a body too, who can be touched, held. Hurt.  
It's both scary and exciting.  
You break away for a few breaths, move back in, and this time, ruled by curiosity and impulse, let out your tongue when your lips meet.  
It skids on his lower lip and ends up on the upper one, and you draw back, blushing and giggling through your nose in embarrassment.  
“Sorry—pfft.”  
He smiles, and it's warm and relaxed and a bit amused, everything you've wanted to see on his face, and who knew this kind of context was what would bring it.  
“It's fine.”  
“You're gonna have to deal with my inexperience for a little while,” you point out.  
“That's fine. I...”  
He trails off, and you sit back just a little, tilting your head in a silent question but keeping his steady with your hand.  
“… I don't have much experience in this particular field either,” he finally adds, voice quiet and eyes fleeting in embarrassment.  
“… what, really?”  
He nods.  
“I was… unpopular in middle school. And by the time I reached high school, a lot of the other students were afraid of me and left me alone. As I didn't feel the need to go out of my way to build that kind of relationship, the occasion never presented itself.”  
“Oh.” It's… surprising, to say the least, especially with his looks, but you suppose it makes sense. Even the people you've seen sighing after him in recent months haven't tried to make a move that you could see. “… what about Ren though?”  
He sighs, but sounds less hesitant this time.  
“That was more of a friendly arrangement. He never tried—I suppose he knew it would make me uncomfortable.”  
“… man, if I'd known...”  
He smiles, amused.  
“Then what? Would you have taken special care?”  
“Yeah?”  
“And did you take particular care about _your_ first kiss when you decided to kiss me?”  
“… okay, you have a point,” you chuckle.  
He smiles. Quiet and warm like a sunset spreading through the skies. It hooks into your heart and pulls, the gentleness in his eyes too close to an emotion you haven't allowed yourself to name yet.  
“I appreciate how careful you are with me,” he says. “But you don't need to worry so much.”  
“You think I'm being careful?”  
And here you were, constantly feeling like you were getting carried away. Scared of going too far.  
“I know you are. It shows.”  
You snort.  
“There you go, being a know it all again.”  
He chuckles and looks to the side, a faint smile on his face. You keep watching him, hand lowered to his neck now but the other one still holding his.  
“I know...” he finally ventures after a few moments of silence, “I know what you are capable of when ruled by excitement—or anger. Or rather, I know some of it.”  
You remember the mark on his collar and try not to blush.  
“… there is no need to hold yourself back so much. You aren't the kind of person to cause harm.”  
You look at him. Try to piece together what he's actually trying to say, because if there's one thing you've learned about Ibuki, it's that even when he tries, he's pretty much incapable of saying things directly when it comes to himself.  
“… I still need to keep safety in mind, all right?”  
“Of course.” A pause. “I did promise you.”  
You smile, sudden fondness pulling at your cheeks.  
“Yeah.”  
This time, when you move closer to him again, you let go of his hand, burry yours in his hair instead, tighten your fist and twist, hard.

His reaction is instantaneous, a sharp intake of breath and a desperate tilt of his head, too far to be a simple attempt to relieve the pain. He follows your hand readily when you pull, and a harder twist makes his breath hitch, his body tense, lungs locked as if trying to hold something in.  
You frown, caress the front of his throat, and stand up on your knees to look him in the eye.  
“That goes for you too, you know.” And then bending to his ear. “Stop holding back.”  
And this time, when you pull and press at his throat, he shudders with his entire body and lets out a whimper.  
He cries out at the increased pull of your hand before you've even realise you've tightened it. It's his _voice_ , the way he never raises it outside, and now it's coming in shades you've never heard before, not even last time, and _that_ had already been enough to make you forget your apprehension. Raspy and vibrant, almost thick, and the way air sneaks into it makes you grin against his cheek and press up with your thumb, into the hollow between throat and chin.  
You straighten to look at him, scalding shivers rising to your skin again. He's hazed and wide-eyed and fixed on you, like he can't look away at all, and you can't help but grin, curling the fingers at the back of his neck tighter as your thumb rubs a little, making him cough a little and hold his breath, releasing it in tiny halted bursts.  
_Yes_.  
It goes down your spine like an anchor sinking into the sea, grounding you with excitement as he finally lets go, doesn't fight, doesn't _hide_. And he's—almost panicked, but when you bend closer and hum, the corner of his lips shifts in what might almost be a smile.  
You want to _laugh_.  
“Like this, huh,” you murmur as you bend to kiss the side of his jaw, and his eyes finally slide shut, his lungs falling with a long, desperate exhale of relief.  
You're burning still, but none of it is impatience, your lungs heated instead with the want to make this last. Like the best fights, the victories grabbed by the thinnest threads of hope, adrenaline-filled damage checks, _feeling_ an attack blow up everything around you and coming out standing, skin still tingling from impact. He's always pushed you the deepest in fights, you suddenly realise, always drew out that fire from you, and now it dawns on you with a laugh that this might have been part of why.  
You're burning, and like the first day you rode a card, it feels like finally becoming yourself.  
He makes a noise in his throat again, the maintained tension making him shudder, and you release his chin and move closer to support him with your now free hand, holding the back of his neck with your hand and his shoulders with your other elbow.  
His bound arms are trapped between your chests, and that, too, brings warmth to your heart.  
You want to make him cry out, but you also want to hug him tight, and you want a thousand things at once.  
You take the middle ground and just take your time. A little less tension on his hair, and you release his neck to trail a finger along its length, up, down, letting the fire in your lungs spread them, make you feel alive. Another kiss to his cheek. Your fingers keep moving, caressing, and with every arc you edge closer to his throat again.  
“Too bad I don't have ice cubes again, huh?” you chuckle as he shivers. “I should've asked before tying you up.”  
“I—” he gasps, takes a shaky breath. “There might… be some...”  
You consider it. It's tempting, _very_ tempting. He did seem sensitive to cold last time, and the idea of trailing ice along the warmer, more vulnerable parts of his neck is all too enticing. Or his back, for that matter.  
But on the other hand…  
On the other hand, he's reached a point where he's all but gone limp in your hold, head leaning into your grip on his hair, and having him in your arms like this is much too satisfying to risk giving up.  
You smile and brush dampening hair out of his face.  
“Next time.”  
His eyes widen and you grin, moving in for a short, biting kiss that leaves him open-mouthed and pliant.

You go slow after that. Burning as you are, you still love the abandoned way he leans into your hold, so you keep him close, held sideways to your chest with one arm, its hand sometimes rubbing at his scalp, sometimes gripping at his hair, and with the other you explore. Caresses, light enough to make him shiver, especially whenever you get close to his neck. Light scratches, your nails short but slightly rough-edged. You grip and pinch at the back of his neck, experimentally, and all but bite your lips at the little noise he makes.  
You want more.  
Curious, you dig your thumb into his neck, right behind what you think might be a line of muscle, and push, upwards, working him like a massage before curling your other fingers right next to it, on the other side of the line, and tighten your grip, digging into him still and twisting just a little.  
“C- _Chrono_ —”  
Desperate and breathy, and again your name slips through his lips and it makes you feel so strong, so happy, so _fond_. You want to hear your name on his lips like this a thousand times.  
You keep your grip tight, pinching even a little harder. His breath itches, and you take your time to enjoy the way he _almost_ squirms—almost, but not, his body prone instead to tiny little jerks as the movements he's holding back try to force their way through anyway.  
When you release his skin, he lets out a long, shaky breath, and you smile, leaning your chin against his head as you rub at the heated skin gently.  
His chest moves against yours. It's a nice feeling, another of those reminders that he's more than he seems, a reassuring mark of physical presence. Before last time, you'd never really been given a chance, between distance and clothes, to see or feel his chest moving.  
It occurs to you that you could feel it while he rests or sleeps.  
And you could—from now on—you _could_ have this regularly. Not just this with him trembling in your arms, but this, being with him, just having his body close, wonderfully physical.  
Dating suddenly sounds a lot more appealing than all the romcoms and school gossip ever managed to make it seem.  
You take a deep breath of your own, warm and comfortable, and move to the other side of his neck, pinching again. He breathes in shakily, leans closer against your chest, face hidden in your shoulder. It's— _cute_ , you realise, amused, rubbing soothing fingers into his scalp as you squeeze and pull the skin of his neck harder. He shivers, whispers your name again, and his shudder when you release him shakes through all of you, from your skin to your heart to your gut.  
You kiss the side of his head.  
You feel warm. Your fingers keep brushing his skin, gently but with occasional pressure, playing with all of his neck, teasing with little pinches that never really catch the skin but still make him shiver. And as your breath evens out, you find your touch getting slower, softer, affectionate rubs that make his own breath pace itself on yours, his body gradually relaxing.  
After a few minutes, he's just resting against your chest, completely empty of tension, and you could stay like this for hours.  
You smile and reach to brush hair out of his face, seeing part of it for the first time in a while.  
“You okay?”  
He gives a small hum of confirmation. You go back to petting him. No need to rush the situation. Let him ease out of the feeling slowly, you remind yourself.  
He looks so vulnerable, and for a second you feel a jab of guilt. You take a deep breath, push it away as best as you can, pull him closer into your arms instead.  
_Was this really the right choice?_ you can't help but wonder, the doubt and guilt nagging at you like it did through the first years of your cohabitation with Mikuru. _Am I so full of myself that I'd think I could fix whatever was wrong just by indulging?_  
Because you'd _wanted_ this, and you can't lie to yourself about that one. Not after those moments when you felt like sinking fangs into him.  
You'd wanted, and you got what you wanted.  
He shifts in your arms slightly, and rests his face against your neck.  
And that's what snaps you out of it, the wave of affection that rushes through you at the sight, at the feeling.  
You're here because of that feeling, because when all's said and done, your first gut reaction when you saw him was to want to take care of him.  
And maybe. Maybe that's enough.  
You tighten your hold.  
“… mind if I hold you like this a little longer? I'll untie you afterwards...”  
“It's fine.”  
His voice is closer to his usual tone, but if he's recovered, he's still not tensing again or moving away, and that makes you feel safer than any protection would.

You hold him. Or hold on to him, you're not sure which is which. But with his breath slowly matching yours, and his weight in your arms, your doubts and apprehension slowly calm down, go quiet, leaving you only with warm, surprisingly natural comfort.  
This should feel strange, and it somehow doesn't. Not really.  
You pet his hair again, feel him chuckle against your neck.  
“… how're you feeling?” you ask.  
“Questioning my sanity,” he says, his voice amused. But then he takes a deep breath, then lets it out in a slow, comfortable sigh. “… thank you, Chrono. This was… nice.”  
You grin.  
“You used my name again.”  
“Do you not want me to?” he asks, twisting a little to look up at you, and damn if _that_ isn't a nice sight in itself.  
“No, it's great. I like it. Been hoping you would, actually.”  
He smiles.  
“I will continue, then. Although maybe not in public.”  
“Yeah, that's fine.” You pause. “… Are you feeling better?”  
“Yes.”  
“Good. Worth it, then.”  
He looks at you for a few moments, silent.  
“… Chrono...”  
“Yeah?”  
“Are you sure about this?”  
“Which part?”  
“Everything.”  
“I'm the one who dragged you here, remember?”  
“Yes, but…” he pauses. “ _Why?_ ” he finally asks, and maybe he's still not out of that mode because you don't think he'd ever have made himself ask normally, but you're glad he did.  
“Because I wanted to.” You smile a little. “Letting someone take care of you for once won't kill you, you know? And besides...” you catch his eye, make sure he's looking at you, “I want to get to _know_ the guy under the big words and the coat. And I'm starting to like him quite a lot.”  
He looks away. You wonder if he'll bristle if you call him cute.  
Maybe another time.  
“So let me, okay?” you continue, feeling surprisingly sated.  
After a few seconds, he nods.  
You tighten your hold with a grin and a little self-satisfied laugh. He chuckles again (oh boy, there comes the blush again, you could get used to this), and shifts slightly, and that's when you notice the slight wince when he does.  
“Oh yeah, let me untie you...”  
“It's fine. The position was just straining my back.”  
“Y'know, that almost makes it sound like you _don't_ want me to untie you,” you tease him, and you have to resist the urge to laugh when he rolls his eyes. “Fine, hang on.”  
You let go and help him sit up, making sure he's steady and getting up to your knees to push hair off his shoulders. Stupid height difference, making you do extra work.  
He relaxes again when you pull back, shoulders unusually low, and—it almost looks like he's waiting for _something_ , and for a second you feel anxious again, the old ghosts of all the times you felt inadequate as a child brushing your chest.  
Hesitantly, you reach up to tuck a strand of hair behind his ear. His eyes close, contentment on his face, and it makes you smile again, a more quiet one. This feels…  
It feels precious.  
You rub behind his ear a little.  
“I'll untie you and make something to eat, okay? It'll do both of us good.”  
He nods and opens his eyes again, and you fight not to fluster as you reach down to untie his hands. There's slight marks where the edges of the belt were, like he's pulled on them unconsciously, and that makes your skin tingle again, even though it also makes you check them twice for any sign of damage.  
“Don't fret so much...”  
“I'll fret if I _want_ to,” you huff.  
He shuts up and lets you finish your inspection. But even if his lips seem straight, they, just like his cheeks, are unusually relaxed, and that's closer to a smile that he gets most of the time.  
You nod, finally satisfied, and get up and off the bed, wincing at the soreness in your legs. Note for next time: don't hold a position for so long.  
… note for next time, maybe make _him_ hold a position for a bit longer.  
He slides his legs off the bed to sit on its edge with much more ease than you and you remember he's had _training_. Definitely make him hold longer next time.  
“Okay,” you call out, “is there anything I can use or did you have specific plans?”  
“Take whatever.” He pauses. “… I don't have much, unfortunately.”  
“I'll manage.”

(Ten minutes and a disbelieving glare later, you're headed for the nearest convenience store.)


End file.
